broken home

broken home

 

each night repeats the one before;

get drunk somewhere,

sleep with a stranger,

 

or home alone, a sleepless night

on a sheet-less single mattress

 

dirty washing needs the launderama

maybe I’ll take it there tomorrow

 

the sink is stacked with greasy dishes

I’ll wash them next time I wake up sober

it stinks of poisoned rat and piss

 

I have a cat – what’s happened to Crabby?

 

I wanted a lover - but settled for lovers;

wine, women, and the ‘walk of shame’

after joyless one-night stands with

lonely school-gate single-mothers,

 

‘we mustn’t wake the kids so

close the door gently as you go’

 

or strangers, legless on Bacardi,

who’d remember me as,

 

‘some bloke I dunno, maybe...

I think... I might...

have shagged one night’

 

married women occasionally,

furtive connections over skinny lattes –

on a strictly casual basis

 

at a buffet do say or a leaving party,  

 

‘could you pass the veggie pâté?’

‘the pleasure’s mine.’

‘glass of sherry?’

‘thank you. so very kind’

 

memories, memories

 

Zara’s baptism at South Bay Scarborough;

her waist-deep rejection of the ‘works of Satan,’

holy ‘hallelujahs’ as the pastor

praised the Lord and dunked her under

 

(Satan’s ‘works’ had been fine by Zara a fortnight earlier)

 

after last night’s drunken fumble

with a bouquet grasping maid-of-honour

I bought a bag of cod heads for ‘Crabster’

 

I hope he hasn’t gone forever.